


omne ignotum pro magnifico

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Melancholy, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Poetic, super short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:39:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Found on a scrap of parchment in a back room of Rosemary and Thyme..."His fingers crook and flex, drawing a blade. I know exactly how his hands feel, for I have lived every possibility in dreams."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 89





	omne ignotum pro magnifico

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own or profit from this lore or these characters.
> 
> Please do not repost, etc. my work.
> 
> It occurs to me that I should add: Rosemary and Thyme is Dandelion's cabaret/brothel/club, if you don't know.
> 
> I originally published this anon, but I guess I'll claim it. If you've read The Fortnight, this is probably the same version of Jaskier.

It is unspeakable.

Words are my lifeblood, yet in this, they betray me. Words are insufficient. None exists to describe this twist and pull. It cuts; it soothes. I am as a budded flower (appropriate, no?), existing for him—for his eyes, his enjoyment, however fleeting. _I will not say joy, but maybe, one day_ —existing to be plucked at the stem and broken. I am but ornament and excess.

And yet I grow. Renewal comes; I return. Again and again and again I find my way back to the sun, the heat, the light of him. His strength sustains. His strength begets strength. In him, no deific face is revealed, no _Ard Feainn_ , no eternal fire. He is the just-tempered edge that has hemmed in Chaos and pushes it back as he wills.

As he wills, I can but do. Is it this strength that so bends me? His shoulder is cruel; it tempts and eludes. I know the column of his neck. I know what blood can pour from it, and I tremble. What madness stirs in me that cannot resist such ferity? My hands shake. I reach for him and pull back, fist tight. I can only find refuge in other storms, insatiate amid the relative languor. I have seen the crimson-hued tempest of his rage. I know what might is lost to me.

His fingers crook and flex, drawing a blade. I know exactly how his hands feel, for I have lived every possibility in dreams.

This must be unspeakable.

It cannot be love. It must not be love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Very different from my usual.
> 
> Thoughts?? Any feedback appreciated.  
> Much love.


End file.
